


Forever I shall be a stranger to myself

by allollipoppins



Category: Gone Girl - Gillian Flynn, The Girl on the Train (2016), Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Actor Yuri Plisetsky, Aged-Up Yuri Plisetsky, Alternate Universe, Ballet Dancer Katsuki Yuuri, Dark Katsuki Yuuri, Dark Victor Nikiforov, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Infidelity, Kidnapping, Lilia and Celestino are cops, M/M, Mila and Yuri are siblings, Morally Grey Yuri Plisetsky, Mystery, Unreliable Narrator, Yuri is Yakov's son, implied MilaSara
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-02-24 05:47:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13207266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allollipoppins/pseuds/allollipoppins
Summary: When Yuri’s husband disappears without leaving a trace, it is not only their city, but also the whole of Russia that causes an uproar in their quest to look for Yuuri Katsuki-Plisetsky.Then come the secrets and the lies, destroying the image of the perfect couple that defied the world to be together. And with them, the rumours that Yuri killed his husband in cold blood.Is Yuri as innocent as he lets on in this case, or is there more to his husband’s disappearance than it seems?Or, what happens when you mix YuuYu with Gone Girl & Girl on the Train.





	1. What Have We Done To Each Other?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [missbellatrix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbellatrix/gifts).



> First things first, Happy Birthday to one of the wonderful people whom I got to know on the internet! This isn't much darling, and it's not even that big of a surprise but it was the least I could do in celebration of one of my favorite people's existence :)  
> (I must confess - it's just part 1 of your gift, sowwy ^^')
> 
> I hope you are all having a great holiday, best of wishes to everyone in anticipation for the new year!!  
> I meant to keep this work for a later date, but I've had it in mind for so long I just couldn't resist spending some time on it and pulling it up earlier ^^ if by ay chance you're wondering why The Erlking hasn't been updated yet... I am working on it. For real. Finals timing just isn't working in my favour.
> 
> If you don't know anything about Gone Girl or Girl on the Train, it's quite alright. The story is meant to be long, and I'm using the screenplay of Gone Girl as a storyline so everything will come in due time. Of course, feel free to ask anything you're curious about :)
> 
> I don't own Yuri!!! on Ice, nor do I own Gone Girl and the Girl on the Train.

One of the first things they teach you about marriage is that it is first and foremost a matter of proportions.

 

A pinch of this, a teaspoon of that – all the little things, the intricate details that come unannounced and go unnoticed, but make all the difference. There are things you can go easy on, and others which you can’t afford to use to excess.

 

We used to have such a laugh about how ridiculous we thought the concept itself was. It always spurred open debates and inside jokes about physical proportions, a petty and rather unceremonious habit of ours. For every jab, every comment about the extra inch of thick skin protruding at the waist – his, never mine –, the same words, the complicit smile shared. Partners in crime, you could say.

 

It would take me five years to understand what exactly my father had meant by proportions.

 

If there is a part of Yuuri I love, maybe no more than the others but something that manages to feel important when it comes to him, it’s his head. When I think of my husband, I always think of his head. Heads, heads and tails. What would we become without them, I wonder. A round, small head buried under locks of smooth black hair. And always this underlying curiosity. The latent question of how far I can probe before reaching my Yuuri’s mind.

 

I picture cracking his lovely little skull, unspooling his brain, trying to get answers to the most complex and elementary questions.

 

I twirl lock after lock. The strands curl up at the end and I weave my fingers through them, allow myself to be wrapped around individual rings and trapped, each finger caught in a loose, velvet-like prison. I slither, work my way through them. Like a key in a lock, insistent, pressing and wondering, until the screws no longer feel so tight, until I can pull at the gears.

 

Sounds so easy. My husband is within distance, his head resting atop my chest and not budging once, rocking slightly under the pressure of my heart and lungs against my ribcage. His left ear is pressed directly where my heartbeat begins its frantic morning sonata. If he didn’t know I was awake, he will know now. And if he was still slumbering, he will come back to himself now.

 

And wake up he does. Eyes wide open, his pupils deep as a bottomless pit, irises burning a colour so different from their usual chocolate hue. Raised in alarm and meeting my own gaze, a silent question asked with enough intensity to make me stop in my ministrations. His cheek comes to rest on my breast again, seeking a flitting caress through the fabric of my shirt, the friction of skin against cotton against skin almost mimicking the touch of my palm atop his crown of hair, the brush of knuckles running along his face. Without once breaking eye contact.

 

The primal questions of any marriage:

 

What are you thinking?

How are you feeling?

What have we done to each other?


	2. The Morning Of - Yuri

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning of their fifth anniversary; a glimpse in Yuri Plisetsky's mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Vladimir is an actual town that is part of the Golden Ring, a set of towns north of Moscow. It is mostly a detail to give you some context of where Yuri and Yuuri live.  
> \- Mila is Yuri's twin sister in this fic for plot reasons. I'm thinking of how I could add Georgi in the mix, but he won't be added as part of their family.  
> \- Mila is married to Sara, though the latter won't appear yet.
> 
> Writing this feel so funny while also working on the Erlking. My mind is so conditionned to writing gothic stuff that now it's strange writing more "modernly". If things feel off to you, that's for the most part why. It's also a teeny bit impersonal because I've cut the story to follow the script of the movie, so while I try to detail as much as possible, it is in great part close to the original material. Updating is easier because there are many chapters that are short and familiar to me for the better part, but since I have three weeks of exams coming I make no promises :)

JULY 5th

THE MORNING OF

 

Unlike Yuri Plisetsky, the rest of the inhabitants living within Vladimir, Russia didn’t rise with the sun. On that morning, as he took out the trash, he stopped to look at the sun. It rose above the treeline and over the neighbouring rooftops, seemingly staring him down. He squinted against its harsh rays, blinded by how bright it was first thing in the morning.

He hadn’t been sleeping well last night, or the nights before that, and he was certain it could be reflected on his face. There were dark circles under his eyes which must have stood out against his pale skin, making him look all the more sick.

Yuri turned to stare back at the house, looming close behind him like a shadow at his heels. A small, suburban house with white shutters and double doors, walls painted a chipped, cracked chickpea shade. An intricate hybrid of wood and brick, sleek white and grey that looked almost black bathed as it currently was in the dusk. It could have been a model home straight from the pages of a real estate magazine. All-together too big for a reduced household, but it remained nice in spite of the time and Moscow weather wearing it out, and it was his.

And yet his fingers hovered on the doorknob long after he strode across the mowed yard and stood before the door, clenched at the very thought of going back inside. His large shoulders filled the space in the doorway, frame hovering at the entrance. Yuri shivered, the hair on his bare arms standing, in great part due to the chilly morning air.

It all felt so superficial, as if the facade itself and the surroundings had been remoulded, hidden and reshaped into something they weren’t, something eerily fake. Like a conscious, alternate reality teething at its edges and pretending to blend with the rest.

He scoffed at himself for acting so silly, and walked back inside the house.

 

* * *

 

Several hours later, Yuri strode into town under a burning sun, dressed in warmer clothing and looking much better, cheeks red and healthier from the trip in his car. He walked into the Agape with a cardboard box under his armpit, the bar had only just opened and no one could be seen from outside.

Mila beamed when she caught sight of him walking inside the bar, arms spreading in a warm welcome, her smile teasing. Her presence alone put him at ease the moment he stepped inside, if not for the atmosphere reigning inside. The walls of the bar were decorated with posters of vintage movies, alternatively black-and-white, in sepia, or multicoloured. Here and there they had placed many artefacts that made the bar look more like a retro clubhouse than a bar: ‘80s-themed boardgames and toys placed on shelves all around them, a billiard table, a jukebox.

“Ah, the Russian fairy graces us with his presence!”

She flicked water at him with her soaked fingers, as she sat down on the opposite side of he counter, customer-side and directly facing her. Yuri jumped back, hissing like a cat droplets of water hitting his cheeks. He rolled his eyes at her while he wiped away the water.

“Fairies don’t like to be moistened. I brought you a present.”

Yuri set down a decrepit '70s—era Master Mind on the bar.

“Master Mind!” she exclaimed with faked cheerfulness. “I hated this game!”

“No way,” Yuri snorted, “you loved it.”

“No, you loved it” Mila corrected gently. “Thanks anyway.”

She placed it behind the bar alongside a shelf already filled to the brim with other games: battered Life, Cluedo, Snakes and Ladders threatened to fall from where they sat atop chessboards and several editions of Monopoly.

“Pour me some vodka, would you?”

Mila’s eyebrows rode up until they were partially covered by her red hair, the curls doing little to hide her incredulity. She glanced pointedly at the clock, forcing Yuri to follow her motion. 11:09 AM glared back at him from their spot above Mila’s head. Nevertheless she complied wordlessly, retrieving two equal glasses from under the counter, slapping them on the table. She turned away from him to grab a bottle of vodka resting on the shelf behind her. It was, Yuri, noticed, quite new given the popping sound it made when Mila unscrewed the cork. The light that seeped inside the bar through the windows caught the golden ring wrapped around her finger, flashing proudly. His thumb twirled nervously around his own, making the ring roll around his finger.

“So what’s up, Jitters?” Mila tried to pry out of him as she poured their drinks. Equal in proportions and without a fault or a dribble falling out.

Yuri evaded the question, simply shrugging as he reached for the glass closest to him. Mila smiled indulgently.

“If you don’t talk, I’ll fill the silence with: another “Excruciating Story” by Mila Crispino. I could tell you about my customer— service experience while changing Internet providers.”

Yuri snorted. “I do like that one.”

“Or the time I saw a man who looked exactly like Michelle but it wasn’t Michelle, it was a stranger-”

“—whose name was Michelle,” Yuri finished, lips quirked slightly. The odds of encountering his brother-in-law in Moscow, of all places on the planet were extremely low, nevermind finding a man who looked exactly like him in the very place where Mila and her wife Sara now lived. Michelle Crispino-Nekola may have been a good guy at heart, he could still be a pain the arse when he wanted to be.

Mila raised an eyebrow, her expression playful. “Made it kind of interesting.” It quickly morphed into a look Yuri knew all too well from a childhood spent with her by his side: talk.

Yuri simply shrugged. “It’s a bad day.”

“Yuuri?”

Mila’s smile and tone weren’t unsympathetic, but they weren’t completely kind either. She loved his husband, she really did. But she was Yuri’s twin first before she was Yuuri’s sister-in-law, so the matter of siding with who went out the window in the blink of an eye.

Yuri sighed, then raised his glass to his lips and knocked back its contents without further prompting. The vodka seeped at the back of his throat, more refreshing than he could remember it to be. “It’s our anniversary. Our fifth anniversary.” His tongue danced on the word, tasting it as it had the last droplets of alcohol falling back in a small puddle inside his glass. Unlike the liquid, it held a foreign, distant note that didn’t sit well on the tip of his tongue.

Mila frowned, her eyebrows drawn together in a comical way that almost made Yuri want to laugh. “Five already?” she blurted, disbelieving, the cork of the vodka bottle quivering in her grasp as she poured the both of them a generous amount of the spirit. “That came fast.”

Yuri nodded, his head already starting to swim though it was only one glass. And, from the look of things, the first of many.

“And furious.”

He slammed the glass back on the counter, and swiftly sent it Mila’s way with a dismissive twist of his finger. She silently encouraged him with another pour from the full bottle. They had a lot of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter we will get a glimpe inside Yuuri's mind, starting from the day he and Yuri met!  
> I'm currently working on the next chapter of the Erlking, hopefully I'll have it up before Saturday *fingers crossed*  
> Comments and kudos are always greatly appreciated :)


	3. Yuuri - Sugar Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A walk into the past; how Yuuri and Yuri met.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter done! :D We finally get to enter Yuuri's mind via a diary entry, and see howhe and Yuri met seven years from now.  
> Their conversation, and the way I wrote Yuuri's thought may seem quite ooc to you. As mentionned before I'm following the line of the Gone Girl script with added elements from The Girl on the Train, so the pov may not be loyal to Yuuri and Yuri.  
> My exams are starting Monday, so the next chapter won't be up until in two weeks at most, or five days at best. I also regret to inform you that The Erlking also won't be updated before some time, for the same reasons. I wanted to get something done before departing for finals hell, which is how we came to this.
> 
> WARNING: there's implied smut at the end of the chapter. It's short and only a few lines, but it's smut nevertheless.

January 8, 2010

 

My drama teacher used to tell me I had the uncanny ability to slip from reality to abstraction in the blink of an eye, to blend into my surroundings with as much ease as I stood out of them. It was, he said, a quality essential to performers that many dancers lack or forego, always focusing more on the technical aspect of their dancing at the expanse of quality. Dancing without passion is, after all, as good as living without a heart.

I wasn’t really sure what it meant at the time. But since moving here in Detroit I think I’ve come to understand it...

 

They gave us Swan Lake themed pens after the show. None of these plastic, puffy flamingo pens topped with plumage that fall at the slightest touch. Instead they were nearly-perfect imitations of feathers, white for some and black for the others, bending into a soft curve from each felt tip, each strand made of thin nylon that tickled your cheek with every brush. My own fits nicely in the palm of my hand, and cursives gracefully on the pages without a single blotch of ink to mess them. I’m writing with it now, black as night. Here’s to hoping it will last me longer than a week.

 

It was one of the few goodies they still had left to give after all the flower bouquets had been distributed and everything glamorous remained – for an exclusive audience only. I couldn’t care less that I, along every other background dancer, would probably not be welcome to the opera banquet with flutes of champagne and hors-d’oeuvres far from nourishing. There’s only so much luxury one can afford.

 

Last night felt like a dream. I let myself be dragged out backstage then out after the whole ritual of undressing, removing our make-up and showering was over. Before I knew it I was off the stage and out of my costume, taking in the aftermath of a hipster party I didn’t remember stepping in.

 

I spotted Yuuko as I weaved my way through the crowd. People parted without much complaint, most too inebriated to care. And then I stopped midway. By the time I had managed to get out of the human labyrinth, she was already deep into conversation with someone else, gazing up at her partner whilst absent-mindedly sipping her drink. I nudged my way out. Takeshi stood in front of her, also holding a glass of his own, but his attention was solely on Yuuko’s lips. I couldn’t hear what they were saying from where I was, but I could tell that he was transfixed by her words. Yuuko was a babbler, but she had this ability to grab your attention and keep it to herself for as long as she wanted. She wasn’t the star ballerina of our promotion for nothing.

 

It didn’t surprise me, seeing these two together. You could say that I had it coming. It didn’t hurt any less, but it at least eased the pain a little.

 

Here I was, lost amid a swarm of strangers, stuck with two organic beers of dubious name and origin in hand. I somehow managed to back-pedal my way to another table, laden with picked-over food and empty cans and bottles.

 

I tried scanning the room for anyone else I might possibly know, but to no avail. Yuuko and Takeshi were obviously a no-no by now, and when my gaze found Phichit, he was lip-locked with one of our technicians. Seung-gil, and Guang-Hong and Leo weren’t better off, making out in a corner.

 

And that’s when I spotted him. Or rather, when _he_ spotted me as I set down my free beer.

 

A gorgeous, sweet-looking, cool-ass guy. Built like a Greek God with his golden hair pulled up in a messy bun and eyes a clear, piercing colour. Definitely out of my league. And yet here he was, making his way over to me.

 

“Excuse me, sir?”

 

That took me aback, for some reason. In my whole life, no one had ever called me “Sir”. Only ever “Mr Katsuki” or Yuuri, that or I was never spared the grace of a name. For all my intentions of going unnoticed, I had been intercepted. And this one definitely had my attention.

 

“Sorry, I feel like I should warn you. You see, it’s dangerous to set down a monk—brewed Belgian wheat beer when the party is down to three Beast Lites and a bottle of Pucker.”

 

I tend to smile when I’m nervous, sometimes in the most inappropriate moments. And I felt the very same treacherous smile forming on my lips. I nodded in mock understanding.“Might attract some desperate characters.”

 

He winked at me, a tipsy kind of wink that made his eyes twinkle under the lamplights. My mystery man gestured toward a group of men that looked like they had stepped out of some Williamsburg musical, all dressed in suspenders and broad-brimmed hats. From where I stood, even with my glasses perched atop my nose, I couldn’t make the difference between any of them. A congregation of bearded men who held onto each other with arms slung around their shoulders, as cordial as it was wobbly.

 

“Things could get ugly. The Amish are on Rumspringa.”

 

I glanced down at the wooden board sitting directly across them, nearly empty, and groaned. The meat and cheese platter Yuuko had convinced me to bring was old news. Everything was purely and simply gone: prosciutto, iberico, chorizo and salami down to the foul-smelling, leaking French cheese slices, green olives and breadsticks. And here I had been hoping to steal some of those for myself to celebrate the end of the season.

 

“They already relieved me of my artisanal meat platter.”

 

His eyes widened. Emerald green, I noted, sharp as a cat’s.“Finally, someone to tell me how to pronounce that word.”

 

I frowned, the smile still stretched on my lips. “What, “meat?””

 

He nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, meat! One syllable.” It occurred to me then that he looked quite young. While he had a good head over me he could easily have passed for someone 20 or under. It must have been the way he grinned at me, a boyish kind of grin that made me want to peck his cheeks, or the way his eyes shone under the light. How ridiculous.

 

His fingers came in contact with mine as they slipped on the cork of my free beer to pull it from my grasp. They seemed to burn against my own, cooled from where they had touched the glass bottle, and lingered as they slipped it from under me. I let it slide, and he picked up the beer.

 

“Whose beer am I drinking?”

 

He edged closer to me so we stood in the same space, far too close for comfort. And yet I found myself not minding at all. I caught a whiff of his aftershave when he moved. Cheap, probably something that came from a bottle with a ship on it, but with marine undertones that I drank in.

 

“Let’s see, then. What’s your type?”

 

Our eyes roamed the crowd together, in unison. He felt warm next to me, a welcome addition that reminded me that I’d have to get home soon. Cozy as I was, I preferred to take my time. Mystery Man pointed to a horn-rimmed, haughty guy decked in plaid from head to toe with assorted loafers. That one kind of screamed “douchebag” to me, not that I ever would have admitted it out loud.

 

My company, nevertheless, wasn’t so merciful. “I can’t picture you sitting still while he goes on and on about his post-grad thesis on Proust.”

 

He then pointed to a side-burned guy in a “Novelty” t-shirt and a fedora.

 

“Ironic hipster so self-aware he makes everything a joke?” he hypothesized.

 

I briefly turned to him. “I prefer men who are funny, not "funny."” His eyes met mine for a second, seeming to find what they’d been looking for, and turned back.

 

Last but not least on his victim list was a wavy-haired, granola-yoga type that screamed “fuckboy” if I didn’t know better.

 

“Please tell me it’s not Deeply Sensitive Emo-Dude –”

 

“—who says things like "I love strong women." –” I caught up fast.

 

“– which is really code for "I hate strong women.” he finished, the both of us still staring in the same direction.

 

A silent beat passed as we stood facing the room in comfortable silence., before I decided to put him out of his misery. “I came with a girl friend, actually.”

 

“Oh.” Disappointment briefly flashed through his face, though he made a quick work of hiding it.

 

“But,” I completed as I leaned back against the table, “I happen to be very open-minded.”

 

“What type does that make you?”I asked.

 

He shrugged. “Just your regular Moscow guy, born-and-bred.”

 

I raised my eyebrows. That explained the slight accent, the way his tongue rolled on certain syllables. “Moscow, huh? That’s nice.”

 

“And from your accent I’m going to guess...New Yorker!”

 

I tutted at that, smirking a little. “Nope. Japanese cover to cover. I'm Yuuri.”

 

He guffawed, jaw and eyes open so wide I almost thought they would fall off. “Get. Out. It can’t be.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because” he started, pointing at himself, “I am Yuri.” He blinked at me, as if looking at me in a new light. “Wow, talk about a coincidence. I never would have guessed. With that accent you would make sensation on a Broadway stage.”

 

His compliment brought a slight flush to my cheeks. It was this, or the alcohol rushing through my veins.“That’s nice of you to say, but I’m good where I am.”

 

Mystery Man’s – Yuri’s – lips pursed.“I beg to differ, though I am sure you’re good at what you do. So tell me then, Yuuri. Who are you?”

 

“Let’s see,” I considered, liquid courage not failing me yet. “A. I am an award-winning stripper.” I backed away from him, relishing in the way his body unconsciously followed my motion as I laid back against a wall “B. I pen moderately successful sentimental stories.” “C.” I paused, taking a swig of my beer, pondering. My voice came out a little raspy from the bitter drink, a little resigned. I licked the remaining beer off my lips, his eyes following the tip of my tongue as it wiped it away. “I’m a dime-a-dozen ballet dancer.”

 

Before I could fully register it, his hand had brushed my own, his fingers slipping under my palm. Sometimes I’m just not so sure whether what I am seeing is the truthor not, if my eyes are deceiving me. This, however, felt real enough.

 

“A,” he started, his fingertips caressing my own with feather-like, almost imperceptible touch. “I don’t know that much about stripping, but I’m going to assume that if you did you’d work the pole and honestly,” he continued, his fingers still touching mine, “your fingers are far too delicate for exotic dancing. As for B, my grandfather happens to be a subscriber for Kirkus Reviews, so I’m sure I’d recognize you. So, I’m gonna go with C. Though I’m tempted to object on the first part of that sentence.”

 

“Is that so?”

 

He chuckled, a nervous sound that only enhanced my first impression of him. Young, childish, but maybe not so innocent. “This is the part where I admit that I actually knew who you were from the start. I’ve seen you dance on that stage and I can assure you, you’re far from a dime-a-dozen dancer.”

 

By this point, I was sure that my face was red as a tomato. I simply could not stop smiling. Gosh, how stupid I must have looked. And oh, how I liked it.“And you? Who are you?”

 

Yuri grinned back.“I’m the guy to save you from all this awesomeness.”

 

* * *

 

We laughed all the way down to the elevator. My ears buzzed a little. From the drink, the speed of the elevator, or out of giddiness. Hard to tell. The brush of his clothes against mine, the scent of his aftershave, his laugh was driving me nearly crazy. I was only the slightest bit tipsy, as he was, barely touching, in spite of being by his side, but I couldn’t help thinking about it.

 

“So you’re an aspiring actor. Does that make you an expert on people?”

 

“Well, in theory, I know how to behave like certain people in certain situations, what to say, what not to say –”

 

“– How to bullshit,” I cut him without bite.

 

He flinched, as if I’d attacked him with that single comment. “No! Not with you, never with you.”

 

I laughed humourlessly at that one.

 

“I’m serious,” he protested.

 

I stopped to study him. I had meant it as a joke, of course, he must have known that. In spite of the darkness shielding the greater part of his face, I could tell he was being sincere. A tad frightful, even. My eyes settled on his chin. Jutted, so sharp it could have been sculpted.

 

“It’s hard to believe you,” I mused. “I think it’s your chin.”

 

Yuri gasped, as amused as he was confused. “My chin?”

 

I nodded. “Mmm. It’s quite villainous.”

 

I placed my finger over his chin to test the view. Indeed. Bar the Eastern features, he reminded me of a British villain straight out of a play or a Bond movie.

 

“Alright then,” Yuri assented, placing his own index next to mine “No bullshit. 100% truth.”

 

We wandered together into the dead of night, talking about everything and anything, huddling together to keep warm. By the time we came to how we’d both been invited to the party, I felt as if I’d known him forever.

 

However, it was getting late. While I didn’t want to go home yet, I knew I couldn’t stay out there indefinitely. I was going to hail a cab, until Yuri suddenly took my hand and made me turn the corner. When I raised my head to look at him, he only guided me further. And then the most magical thing happened.

 

We stepped out behind the bakery, truck parked while employees extracted crate after crate of bags out of the vehicle. Every time a crate fell to the floor, a dusty powder rose from the white bags, hovering in the air and shedding light on the path ahead of us. As the dust rose from side to side, it elevated in the air until we were surrounded by a cloud of powdery white. My mouth opened in wonder as I strode through it, my fingers reaching out to try and touch the cloud. Something sweet lingered on the tip of my tongue; it was a sugar snowstorm.

 

Yuri grinned at me knowingly as I leaned back against the wall, taking in my clothes that had turned white from the sugar, coating my hands and jacket with a fine film.

 

“You know I have to kiss you now.”

 

I chuckled. “Is that right?”

 

“I would be a fool to let you walk through a sugar storm unkissed,” he stated as if it were the most logical thing in the world. “Hold on.” Yuri’s fingers reaches for my lips and drew their curve, brushing them clean of sugar. The rest of it floated all around us as he leaned in, and I stayed anticipating. A fairytale kind of kiss.

 

And God, did he know how to kiss. The memory of his lips on mine still burns in my memory, taking me back to our last hours together. Me, spread out on the bed of his studio apartment, laid bare for him to take. And him, on his knees at the edge of the bed, his head bobbing on my lap as I threw back my head in bliss. His hair, dishevelled from the way I’d pulled at it, caught the lights filtering inside through the bars of his windows, burning gold and tickling my tights.

 

“Yuri Plisetsky?” I said, leaning up on my elbows, taking in the sight of him between my legs. He raised his head in question. “I really like you.”

 

He managed to grin with my cock still in his mouth and I laid back as he went in town again, my hands gripping the mattress behind me and his name on my lips. And for the first time in ages, I genuinely felt crazy, stupid happy.


	4. Agape - Yuri

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brother-sister bonding moment, and the calm before the coming storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shows up late with Starbucks* suuup ppl  
> I know I know, this hiatus took much longer than it should have, and technically I shouldn't even be chilling this much given everything I've still got left to do (translation internship to find, essays due in a month, yadayada but who cares ^^)  
> This chapter was originally meant to be a little longer, for dramatic purpose, but given that I like the 2000- ratio of these chapters so far, I think I'll start setting all the drama next chapter ;)  
> Originally Yuri was more of an uncaring jerk as I wrote him, but part of me felt that it was a little unfair, no matter how much worse I'll treat his character later on... I'll let you guys be the judge of that :)

Yuri swallowed back some of his drink as Mila set up the Life board between them, the Mastermind remaining on its newly-found shelf along with the other games. It spread on the counter, a myriad of squares and plastic figurines in all possibles shades under the rainbow, an almost nauseating view so bright and early in the morning.

“So is Yuuri going to do one of those anniversary—whaddaya call it?— treasure hunts? Themed two-person party?” Mila asked as she moved her peg forward, already a few good steps ahead of Yuri on the board.

Yuri was quick to follow her, not without a slowed pace. “You mean the forced march designed to point out what an uncaring, oblivious asshole I am,” he grunted.

Mila’s eyes grew wide as saucers, disbelieving. “Wow. Dramatic much.”

Yuri nodded distantly, fully focused on his progress. “I know.”

“I meant you,” Mila corrected.

She was met with silence, as Yuri’s eyes were still trained on the Life board, contemplating the steps and obstacles. He frowned. What was even at play anymore? Did anyone actually win at this game?

“Life,” he sighed, a tirade hovering on the tip of his tongue, ready to be uttered with all the flair of a long-time Thespian. Nevertheless, he let the verses drop back inside his head, throwing it back once more to taste the alcohol in his throat. It made him raw, a little more honest. Liquid courage at its finest, though it was of no use here. “I don’t remember the point.”

Mila chuckled. “Deep Hasbro thoughts. It’s this or a home-made paper fortune teller.”

“Or tarot.”

Mila hummed as she spun, hitting the mark and promptly moving. “Spin,” she chanted. “What was the clue last year he got so mad about?”

That was an easy answer. Yuri spun in turn, reciting the exact words without missing a beat. “When your poor Yuuri has a cold; this dessert just must be sold." He added in the cryptic effect for good measure, making a face in the process that had Mila repressing a smile.

“And the answer?”

Yuri huffed tiredly. “I don’t know, Mila! If it had been his favourite dish or something I would have known, but I don’t. He doesn’t even like sweets.”

He moved his little man, landing on the Get Married square.

“At least you know that part. Few years ago—you'd have known.”

Mila placed a pink peg—wife in his peg car, cheekily winking at him over the counter. He glared at it.

“Few years ago it was fun. Year One, the traditional gift is paper, you know that—so at the end, he gave me a bound notebook. So I could write my script.”

“A nice gesture,” Mila conceded. “And what’d you give him?”

“Opera tickets. That was when I could still afford it.”

Mila spun again; her peg skipped over the Get Married space by only a millimetre, the peg standing on the line that separated the square from another.

“Year Four: silk and linen. He bought us new bedsheets and ties, because no respectable man doesn’t own at least a set of ties. I don’t even wear those outside of official functions.”

“Sure, but did he do anything with them? Tie you to the bed and ride you silly?”

“Well… he did after,” Mila wriggled her eyebrows suggestively at that, “but that’s beside the point and you know it. It was fun when it was Year Three and we got leather straps, it’s not fun anymore.”

It wasn’t for lack of trying though. They’d had their own ways of being around each other, when they weren’t simply slow-dancing to their usual pace. The truth was that ever since Yuri had gotten more and more classes to handle at the Academy, and Yuuri had decided to apply for jobs in the city, hours away from home, they hadn’t gotten to see much of each other. This particular year, unlike the others, had yet to take off. They were lucky to pass each other in the mornings to grab a quick breakfast before leaving, or late at night when he came back from rehearsals or a shift at the bar. Luckier still if they could fit a quickie in on Saturdays before brunch with Mila or Otabek. What little time they had left for each other didn’t leave much space for anything else, not even small talk.

“I can’t see why you would want to complain about that. I’d sell my soul to have Sara do that to me. Consider this, there’s so much worse than kinky sex. Year Four is flowers and fruits in the UK. He could have led you to the dying rosebush in your backyard. You know, the one you never watered...that would be symbolic. Or smashing the china set over your head.”

Yuri hummed non-committally as she added an extra inch to their drinks. “What’s the gift for five?”

“Wood.”

“What’d you get him?”

Yuri shook his head. “There’s no good gift for wood.” He would know. He had searched heaven and hell for ideas, pouring what time he had outside of drama classes and rehearsals into looking up inspiration online, only to end with empty hands. Not that Yuuri would mind. If he passed by the flower shop on his way back home, Yuri would be able to find him a bouquet of roses. Preferably one of those insipid, artificially-tinted blue roses his husband affectionated so much. Yuuri wasn’t difficult, he wouldn’t blink at their sight.

“You could get him matryoshkas,” Mila suggested. “They’re cute and you can find them everywhere, I’m sure Yuuri would like it.

Yuri appeared to consider it for a moment. His mouth twisted, until it became lax again. Flowers remained a surer bet. “I’m not sure. It sounds stupid.”

Mila sighed. “It sounds stupid because you think it’s stupid. At least try and pretend that you care, would you? Not everyone is as much of a killjoy as you are.”

Yuri shook his head. “Nah. Not a good idea.”

The sound that passed Mila’s lips was almost feral. Her exasperated tone washed through him, but used as he was to her moods, he barely flinched. “Alright, whatever, you know what? Go home, fuck his brains out, then before either of you can come, pull out and slap him with your penis: Here’s some wood for you, bitch!”

A treacherous laugh breached his lips and he found himself bending over the counter, clutching his stomach as he shook with a peal of laughter. Mila huffed, before reluctantly joining in, and soon the two of them were nearly out of breath.

His cheeks burned from the stretch of his lips, the colour rushing in them. When was the last time he had laughed like that, with anyone at all? Yuri found that he had missed it.

After all his sister had always gotten along with his husband. His better half, she had jokingly said after meeting him for the first time, and even Dedushka had wholeheartedly approved of Yuuri’s influence on him. But Mila knew things that went amiss, things even Yuuri would never be aware of or could ever know. How could he even? He may have been his husband, but Mila stayed direct family. They had shared a womb, known each other their whole lives. And Yuuri, in spite of not being an only child, would never understand their bond even if he tried.

The shrill ring of the telephone strung through their laughter, catching Yuri almost off-guard but not nearly enough to stop him from laughing. Mila paused, not without restraining the chuckles dying on her lips, then answered with a smile.

“The Agape,” she greeted, coughing slightly to make her voice sound more professional. Yuri watched distractedly from the corner of his eye as an unheard conversation went on between her and the person on the other line.

Mila nodded. “Yep, he’s here!” She stole him a glance that intrigued him, then motioned for him with one hand to come closer. “Hold on, I’ll put you through.”

She places her hand over the mouthpiece as she passed the phone to Yuri. “It’s Otabek!” she whispered.

Yuri frowned. It was rather early for Otabek to make calls.

“I’ve got my phone,” he whispered back. “Why didn’t he send me a message directly?”

Mila simply shrugged, and busied herself with clearing part of the counter with a towel while Yuri went for the phone. He picked it up with one hand, the other tracing the rim of his glass and holding it between his fingertips.

“Hey, Beka” he greeted, genuinely happy to have him on the phone. Out of all the people in town, their Kazakh neighbour – and by extension Yuri’s best friend – was always a calm but welcome presence. Though he tended to make himself scarce in the mornings.

“What’s up?”

“Yura,” Otabek greeted him from his end. “Hey, just calling to check on you. Your door’s open and Potya’s in the garden.”

“Oh!” Yuri said. “That is weird. OK, thanks for that. I’ll be back in a moment.”

“No problem. I’ll keep an eye out on the beast.”

“Sure thing, thanks again.”

Mila raised an eyebrow when he was done, Yuri shaking his head to indicate everything was alright.

“Potya's outside.”

She snorted amusedly. “You are way too into that cat.”

Yuri shrugged, smiling back. “He’s a cat. What else do you want me to say?”

Without further prompting, he sat up from his chair and pushed back his empty glass on the counter. The afternoon light that filtered through the window looked overwhelmingly bright. He reminded himself to grab his sunglasses in the glove box of the car.

Yuri headed to the door, but before he fully exited the building, pointed back at the Life board.

“Tell me how it ends,” he quipped. Surely it would bring a more interesting outcome than what awaited him home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Yuri, if only you knew...
> 
> In case you haven't checked it out yet, I have written another YuriYuu for Valentine's day: "Save the last dance for me", available on my profile :)
> 
> Comments, kudos and bookmarks are always appreciated :)  
> I'm @allollipoppins on tumblr & @AriL10N355 on twitter, hmu!


	5. Empty Places - Yuri

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuri makes a chilling discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here you thought I'd forgotten this wip existed... (I lowkey did haha, sorry about that ^^)  
> I've missed working on this story. It's a nice change from my usual stories because I know what pace I'm at, the chapters are short and it offers brand new perspectives. I just started working, and while I do it from home I'm tasked with rereading translations all day long. I like it so far, but it's time-consuming enough to keep me from devoting time to challenging fics like Erlking. So back to my Gone Girl AU it is :)  
> I can't wait to get started on Yuuri's pov soon! Hope you'll enjoy reading this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it!

The house stands proudly in the sun as Yuri pulls up in the front yard, nodding towards the neighbouring house as he turns into the parking area. Otabek Altin is busy reading the newspaper at the table that gives on his garden, but lifts his head in time to catch Yuri’s salute, and waves back. The gesture only lasts long enough to form a small curve before the hand morphs into what looks from afar like a finger gun, which points directly to the front porch of Yuri’s house. He catches the spots of white and black upon exiting the vehicle, and makes a dash for the door.

“Come here buddy, how did you get there” Yuri coos as he takes Potya in hand, the cat not protesting or moving an inch when he scoops it up in his arms and distractedly rubs its back. It does mewls with a certain indignity after the caresses suddenly cease, his master waving at Otabek.

“Thanks man,” Yuri yells, Otabek giving him a thumb’s up and a short smile before turning back to his newspaper. Knowing that it is the end of their conversation for now, Yuri retreats to the house with the cat in hand. Otabek surely knows what day it is, even better that Yuri himself does, and is probably giving him his peace before they can meet up and talk again. He is, after Mila, the closest thing he has to a confidant, and definitely the only friend he has living close in the area. If there is time, he muses, maybe they could go and grab a few beers in-between anniversary lunch and anniversary dinner.

Yuri stops in his tracks the moment he takes in the front door, which had been left gaping wide open behind Potya. It explains why his cat should have gone outside given how, he notes glancing up at their side of the bedroom giving on the street and at the glass panes along the ground floor, none of the windows are open. Weird, he thinks, I did lock the door behind me this morning. The keys to each door in the house, including his car keys, weight heavily in the bulk that is his jean’s pocket.

Yuuri must have opened up to get some air or gone outside, he thinks as he crosses the threshold, though there are no sounds coming from the backyard, and his husband couldn’t have gone very far in this neighbourhood without the car; there was nothing to see for miles, not even a drugstore or a grocery shop. Curiosity picked, he leaves the door open and sets the cat down. Potya goes off to explore the kitchen, certainly called by the promise of croquettes.

“Yuuri?” he calls his husband. No answer. He heads up the stairs, calling him a second time. No voice calls to greet him at the top. The hall is as it always is: neat, empty. There is no sign of Yuuri in their bedroom either, the bed freshly made and without a crease in the covers. A beep resounds in the silent room, briefly startling Yuri as he turns: the light on the plugged iron clicks and turns into a vivid red. He notices the cloth draped over the ironing board. A crisp, rather nice grey cotton shirt with a concealed black placket and assorted collar. Slim enough to fit Yuuri. Only there is no Yuuri present to wear it. Yuri peers successively into the other rooms, each lock giving easily under his hand: his office is predictably devoid of his husband’s presence, a mess of plays and posters and costumes hanging everywhere. The guest room and the cat’s room and laundry room are just as empty.

He frowns. “Yuuri?” Still no answer as he picks pace and proceeds back downstairs, running all the way down the stairs. Yuuri would never leave anything unattended no matter what circumstance, even an automatic iron. A glance at the kitchen clock tells him it’s past noon now, but there is no activity in the kitchen when he passes through it. Nothing burning on the stove, no dishes in the sink, no coffee grounds in the compost bin. Only two place mats set on the shiny table signal change, none of which had been there this morning after he’d left.

Through the dining room he goes, straight into Yuuri’s space. The Japanese man’s office open on a clean desk, with a few books on each side, the frames and posters on the walls the same as ever. Neat as a pin, and devoid of human activity. The full-length mirror that stretches from one corner of the room to another shows only Yuri’s image, staring back at him in concern. If Yuuri isn’t in his office, then where the hell could he possibly be?

Yuri runs back through the dining room into the living room, only to stop short.

The scene that greets him upon entrance is unlike anything he has ever seen before. The space, barely a nook composed of a love seat, a coffee table and a fake chimney above which a television and several picture frames are set, is a mess.

The coffee table itself is no more. Where it once was stood its overturned iron skeleton, lain on the carpet littered with shards of glass. The end tables which rested next to each armrest are completely smashed, missing part of their legs. The ottoman he had liked to rest his feet on after long days at work was upside down.

Yuri’s blood runs cold inside his body. His fists clench and unclench with difficulty, grasping onto thin air that only cramps them further. His feet almost slip on the hardwood as he backs up.

From across the street, Otabek looks up from his paper the moment he hears the scream.

“YUURI!”

 

* * *

 

Only the surreal nature of the way things are going keeps him from entering a complete state of panic. It might explain why it feels so strange to open the door on the two police officers that came after his call.

For all it’s worth, the two people who step out of the police car look nothing like the detectives he usually sees on television. None of them stir up memories of Saturday evenings spent watching crime shows back in Detroit. The woman who rings is well past her 40s, but carries an air of authority around her that makes her believable enough. Her partner on the other hand, a broad-shouldered Italian that looked like he stepped out of a 70’s sitcom, doesn’t look the part of the sidekick, but it makes the charm of the duo. Good cop, bad cop.

“Mr. Plisetsky?” The woman steps forward, a cup of coffee in hand. Her question is purely rhetorical; of course she knows who he is, and doesn’t wait for Yuri to nod before she goes on. “I’m Detective Lilia Baranovskaya and this is Officer Celestino Cialdini. We understand there are concerns about your spouse?”

“Yeah,” Yuri starts, a little lost for words as he makes space for them to come in. “My husband is gone,” he starts as he walks them to the living room, “and I came home to...” he trails on, waiting to reach the living room.

“Husband?” Officer Cialdini uses this pause to speak, a single word that had the effect of a bomb on him.

Yuri stops on his track, turning to gaze at him. Officer Cialdini is a good head taller than him, he doesn’t waver when faced with his unimpressed face.

“Yes. Husband. You heard me correctly,” he answers curtly, almost spitting the words at him. The agent has the gall to look a little guilty as he nods. It is nothing Yuri isn’t used to, but it still unnerves him to have to explain the circumstances of his relationship with Yuuri. While their marriage had been legal in the States, and had been registered in Fukuoka, it was about non-existent in Russia. Folks, especially ones from a town as small as Vladimir, especially had trouble accepting such affairs. It was only thanks to Yuri’s prestigious acting career and desire to settle down in peace that people didn’t dare make comments, but it was a close call.

“As I was saying, my husband is gone. And I came home to this.”

The officers bend down, examining the scene as Yuri backs away to give them more space. From where he stands, it is hard to read the expression on their face, kept as neutral as possible, hard to tell whether they’re impressed or not by what they are seeing. Baranovskaya suddenly takes a look at the chimney, and for a split second something akin to curiosity appears to cross her face. She takes a yellow post-it from a stack in her pocket, and places it on the mantel below three upright photo frames. Several faces look back at the three of them: Mila, Yuri himself and Nikolai Plisetsky on one picture, two generations of Plisetsky blood in a single photograph; Yuuri and him at their wedding reception, surrounded by friends, all smiles and tilted champagne flutes; then the two of them with Yuuri’s parents and his sister Mari, huddled together in a tender embrace. All eyes presently fixed on Yuri, inquiring, nonplussed.

“I’m not someone who hits the panic button,” Yuri continues, “but… it’s weird, right?”

Cialdini makes a humming sound, contemplative, halfway to affirmative. Baranovskaya turns back to him.

“You mind if we look around?”

Yuri nods. “Sure,” he says, then goes past her to guide them to the staircase. The three of them ascend as Baranovskaya asks him additional questions.

“How long have you two been here?”

“Two years, September,” Yuri replies. “We used to live in Detroit.”

“US?” Cialdini pipes in.

“I was an actor,” Yuri explains as if it were self-explanatory. “We were actors, but Yuuri is more of a dancer.”

Cialdini stares at him for a few seconds, before his lips curves into a small “o” so large he could pop his finger through it. “Ah, same name.”

“Why’d y’all come back here?” Baranovskaya cuts in as they march through the hallways?

“My grandfather got sick.”

Her lips purse into a grimace. Pity. “I’m sorry, how is he?”

“He’s dead.” The answer comes faster than he had anticipated it to, popping in his mind and in his mouth in less than a second’s time. One of the evidences of the universe.

Baranovskaya’s face falls, her eyes motherly when they meet his own. It leaves a bitter taste in his throat.

“I’m so sorry,” she repeats. He can only nod in the face of her sympathy. He’s had his time to grieve.

They start down the hall.

“So what do you do now?” she asks to break the tension that has settled. “For work,” she precises, like she didn’t expect him to have one in the first place.

“Now I own The Agape, downtown. With my twin sister, Mila.”

“Oh!” she exclaims, a smile playing on her lips, Cialdini mirroring her. “The Agape! Love the name. Quite the pun, too.” She notices the iron the moment she comes into the bedroom. Her hand hovers in front of it. It is still hot, and turned on. She unplugs it, then looks at the dress shirt.

“Nice shirt,” she whistles lowly. “Date night?”

“It's our anniversary,” Yuri states. He means to add that it’s the fifth, until his words lock at the back of his mouth. Baranovskaya sticks another neon yellow post-it on the ironing board.

“Okay…” Yuri trails on. “I’ll take you to the kitchen.”

No sooner does he guide them back down the stairs and into the kitchen, walking ahead with Cialdini in tow, that Baranovskaya brandished yet another post-it. His eyes follow her fingers as they place the sticky paper on the base board of a cabinet. The two men subsequently eye three splashes of rusty, scarlet pinpricks that rise diagonally. Yuri doesn’t need to ask what that is, if the way his heart jumps in his chest is any telling sign.

Baranovskaya takes the lead into Yuuri’s office this time, Cialdini following close behind as Yuri looks from the doorstep. Her green eyes peruse the desk area, clean as a whistle without a single stray paper around. Cialdini flips through Yuuri’s well-tended desk calendar, covered with neat scribblings, multicoloured adhesive arrows and, highlights and perfectly shaped circles. “Yuri: Dentist” is set for August. “Potya: Shots” is in a week.

Baranovskaya’s gaze flickers from the mirror that takes an entire wall to the extensive bookcase at the end, and then to the opposite wall. Posters of Yuuri dance from corner to corner, alternately dressed in blue, white or black, covered in feathers or sequins or left almost bare; all lost in a daze, on their lonesome or in the arms of another dancer. His degrees and diplomas cover two rows by themselves: Wayne University undergrad, Opéra de Paris trainee, certificates in Languages of all kind.

“Wow,” Baranovskaya hums. “Impressive guy,” she says as her fingers draw the curved of Yuuri’s legs, his bent feet from picture to picture. It makes Yuri uneasy, for some reason. As if she were intruding, invading something as they were doing by just being here.

“So should I be conc –”

“Wait a second,” Baranovskaya mutters. “I remember these pictures…”

Her eyes fall on a closeup of a dual frame: twin Yuuris, one tall as a grasshopper with a trophy in hand, and the other closer to his current size and arms spread wide on a stage amid other dancers, smile at the camera. The first, Yuri recalls, is from the Prix Benois de la Danse. The second was from Yuuri’s first performance. The night he had met him.

“I remember these!” Baranovskaya realizes. “Wait. Your husband is Yuuri Katsuki?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Yuri somehow manages to make Yuuri's night.
> 
> Comments, kudos and bookmarks are always appreciated :)  
> I'm @allollipoppins on tumblr & @AriL10N355 on tumblr. Hmu!

**Author's Note:**

> I'm @allollipoppins on tumblr & @AriL10N355 on twitter, hmu :)


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